


building a castle in the sky

by WingsOfTime



Series: roza [17]
Category: Guild Wars 2 (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Intimacy, Light Angst, M/M, takes place ambiguously during s5, this is SUPER gay it's just 7.6k words of gayness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24930550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: And now, that they have this? What then?Trahearne's POV of happenings.
Relationships: Trahearne/Male Player Character (Guild Wars), past trahearne/riannoc
Series: roza [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1252070
Comments: 9
Kudos: 20





	building a castle in the sky

Trahearne has been spending his free time wandering around… less than hospitable places.

He supposes it is a habit he will never quite be able to kick. It is not as if he is going to die of hunger or thirst, and by the Tree the Mists can be _interesting_ ; the worse the area, the more it piques his curiosity. He has learned how to use the shadows to travel—the power of necromancy wielded by one of the dead can truly be quite formidable—and it is too easy, whenever he is bored or needs a break from trying to demystify his stolen house, to simply dip his toe into the ground and sink away into knowledge unknown.

He has just come back from one of these journeys, and he has some unflattering aromas and equally unflattering bits of his latest exploration stuck to him. Just because something exists in the Mists, he has discovered, does not mean he cannot bring it back home with him. He will take a bath—he had found a bathing room upstairs, hidden behind a small door—and then after that he thinks he will try to make some tea. He had dug around in the kitchen, and had discovered what he believes to be nontoxic plant matter stuffed into a small metal container. He is eager to try it out (he is also somewhat eager to test out the toxicity level on a living subject, half out of academic curiosity and half because if it _is_ digestible, it means he can harass said subject into taking care of himself during his visits by disproving his “but there _is_ no food and drink in the Mists, Trahearne!” excuse).

But now, a nice, relaxing bath. He gets undressed, dumps his ferns in a washbasin to deal with later, and is about to poke his toe into the large tub when a portal manifests behind him and Roza stumbles through.

He catches himself. Then he gives Trahearne a curious onceover, smiles at his oafish expression, and says, “Hello.”

“Hello,” Trahearne says back. His foot drops into the water with an undignified splash.

Roza does a graceful little spin on his heel just as the portal behind him disappears. He wrinkles his nose—a look that really shouldn’t be attractive on anyone, but Trahearne has long since come to terms with the fact that his life (and death) is very unfair and fate hates him—clicks his tongue, and says, “Thorns, she’s quick with that.”

“I take it this… impromptu visit is not your idea?” Trahearne takes his foot out of the tub and resists the urge to cover himself. Nudity usually does not concern sylvari, and it should not concern _lovers_ especially, but Roza has this… strangely withering, oddly judgmental air about him at times. Trahearne tries to tell himself he is imagining the feeling now—he _is_ naked.

“Oh please, do get in. You stink,” Roza says.

Trahearne winces and complies. Roza paws at the space where the portal had manifested, making an irritated noise.

“Let me back in to murder that charr, please,” he says to seemingly no one. A pause. “No, I mean that in a… nonviolent way. I will do it very… kindly.”

Whoever he is speaking to does not seem to give a satisfactory answer to that, because he sighs. Trahearne asks, curiosity pricked, “What charr?”

Roza glances back over his shoulder. “Ah. You see, there is this strange, overly loquacious charr who has come to the conclusion that I am his literary muse. I thought it was flattering at first, but now he has, in my opinion, overstepped a boundary. It’s a pity I have to destroy his career, really—I always found him rather amusing.”

Trahearne opens his mouth, but Roza rolls his eyes and continues, unprompted, “No, I am certainly not overreacting. He can write filth about _me_ all he wants, but—listen, since you won’t let me back in, you tell him this: if I see Trahearne’s name again in one of—no, if I so much as see him being _vaguely alluded_ to, let alone be one of the main characters, I will skin him and wear his pelt as a cloak. Is that clear? Say that verbatim.”

Trahearne stares dumbly. He… what?

Roza smiles. “Thank you, Aurene,” he says to empty air. “You’re a charm.”

He floats over to Trahearne with a placid smile. He seems terribly calm about the whole thing; perhaps he hands out idle death threats on a regular basis. Trahearne is trying to wrap his mind around the implication that someone is writing—about _him—_ someone is writing—

“By the Pale Tree,” he mumbles, and sinks down into his bathwater.

Roza smiles at him. “Fear not, my Marshal,” he says (he has taken to calling Trahearne that again, which is in all truth quite nostalgic. He more than does not mind). “I am here but to defend your honour. The only person who gets to embarrass you is me.”

“Protective, are we?” Trahearne shouldn’t think he means that as a flirtation. He probably does.

Roza gives him one of his smiles that barely move his mouth yet still manage to brim with confidence. “I protect those who are mine to protect,” he says in a low voice.

Trahearne clears his throat. That is… He should probably steer the conversation to safer waters, since he is still very much nude, and _his_ are currently very much clear. “I… ah…” he says eloquently.

Roza chuckles. “That is not to say that you cannot defend yourself, of course—but you were not there. Anyways, is there room for two in that giant tub? I rather fancy a dip as well.”

He bends down and, to Trahearne’s horror, begins to take off his boots.

“I—um, there is not,” Trahearne blusters. Roza raises an eyebrow at the obvious lie, and he hurries to rectify it: “I mean, that is to say, there is. Clearly. But I would prefer bathing by myself, if you do not mind. Not that you cannot be here with me. I mean—you can be, if you would like. Outside. In the room still, I mean. Just not… in the water,” he finishes lamely.

He winces again. Roza’s other eyebrow slowly raises.

“Wow,” he says with an elegant blink. “Your skill of elocution is truly a thing to behold at times. But I think it is rather adorable. May I sit with you at least, dear lover? I would like to help, if you will allow me to.”

His mouth quirks in a coy little half smile that would make Trahearne’s breath stutter if he still breathed. It really has been too long since he has been with Roza. He has gained power in more arts than just necromancy.

“Alright, but keep your clothes on,” Trahearne mumbles, giving in. He is a weak, weak sylvari.

“Such a humble request. I will acquiesce.” Roza bends down to slip his boots off, then rolls up his leggings to the knee. Trahearne watches the nimble way his fingers move. “Ah, is there a stool…?”

“Yes,” says Trahearne, and that is all.

There is a short pause. Roza gives him a smile that is not unkind. “Where is the stool?”

Trahearne somehow manages to tell him where to find a stool without making a further fool out of himself. Roza pads off to fetch it, and he is given a sweet break for the minute it takes him to go and get it.

Roza returns and sets the stool at the head of the tub. He sweeps his skirt up, sits on it, and dips his feet in on either side of Trahearne’s shoulders. “Is this alright?” he asks.

His legs are resting against Trahearne’s sides, just barely touching him. He stares at one. Even Roza’s ankles are attractive, he thinks inanely, then winces at himself. Is he one of _those_ people now? Brambles.

“It is perfect,” he says. This will probably be very nice, and will most likely not kill him at all, he tries to convince himself. He cannot be set aflame if he is in water, right?

“Excellent,” Roza murmurs. A pale hand stretches out into Trahearne’s vision. “Soap? I want to do your foliage.”

Trahearne gives him the soap. The calves at his sides squeeze briefly as Roza leans forwards to accept it.

“I find this very calming,” he comments. He dips his fingers in the water, wetting them. They retract and he suds up his hands. “I appreciate the aesthetic appeal of washing things to perfection. I used to spend ages doing this with Eirwen when she was smaller. She is white all over—she’s an albino—so even the smallest speck of dirt is easy to see.”

Cool fingers slide into the stems of Trahearne’s foliage. He leans his head back against the border of the tub, letting his eyes drift shut.

“It is therapeutic to be on the receiving end,” he replies as Roza begins to gently clean the dirt from his leaves. “I remember I used to come back from Orr looking and smelling as if I had emerged from the depths with the land itself. I would go to this foliage-tending resort in the Grove to get everything cleansed and healthy again. It was very pleasant—they made good use of the natural hot springs.”

“It is still there.” Roza says. “I believe so, at least. I have been to the Grove more often since you died, ironically.”

He reaches for the soap again. Trahearne hums peacefully as his touch lifts. “What makes it ironic?”

“Ah. My incentive to not visit since then only increased, I would say.” Slender fingers return with mild pressure. “For many reasons. But you have a memorial on the outskirts, so I haunt that.”

Trahearne smiles faintly. He opens his eyes. “Now still?” he questions Roza’s reversed face.

It echoes his smile with a fraction of the strength. “Yes. I… leave flowers.”

Trahearne closes his eyes once more. “I am glad,” he says sincerely. Their situation is complicated at best, and he wants Roza to heal in whatever way works for him. “I would like a kiss, if you are amenable.”

Roza’s hands press points into his skull, and a shadow falls over him as he feels soft lips touch to his own, short and sweet.

Roza continues to wash his head at a relaxed pace. Eventually, he quietly requests for Trahearne to dunk down, which he obliges to. His touch returns when he emerges, trailing along his bark. One hand sweeps up his neck, then pauses.

“Are you?” Roza asks, apropos of nothing.

“Hm?” Trahearne tries to look up at him.

“Are you,” he repeats. His fingers tap, right behind Trahearne’s ear, “sensitive here?”

Trahearne’s mouth parts. Roza continues, as he wets his lips, “It is just that, why would you think I was, if it was not something you were used to? Although I do not know how many people you have slept with. But your leaves are thin here. It makes sense.”

The pad of his finger trails over the shell of the ear, although not moving past the base. Trahearne supresses a shiver.

“Why don’t you find out?” he asks.

“Very well.” There is a smile in Roza’s voice, although he cannot tell if it is smug, sly, or amused. The finger moves up slowly, tracing along the outer point, up to the tip. Trahearne’s eyelids flutter with a swallow.

Roza’s head shifts in his periphery. “Ah,” he says in a discerning voice. “The waters stir as a great serpent rises from their depths.”

Trahearne groans. “Stop it.” The statement makes him want to laugh for its ridiculousness, however, and he turns his head away with a smile.

“Isn’t that the opposite of what you’re supposed to say?” Roza imitates his groan. “‘ _Ohh_ yes, Roza, keep going, don’t stop. I want to have your flesh babies.’”

“I am banning you from reading any more of those books,” Trahearne informs him. _Babies?_ He bows his head, exposing his neck and shoulders. “If you are going to talk, at least make yourself useful while you do it. There is more of me.”

“I will get your back, and then everything else,” Roza announces. He soaps up his hands one more, then begins to lightly scrub them against Trahearne’s bark. “I am not some lazy bush who does things halfway, I will have you know. I am thorough.”

“I can feel that.” The tip of a leaf peels up as Roza pokes his forefinger underneath it. Trahearne resigns himself to his fate.

Roza’s right hand taps against his neck. “Hm. I can tell you a _very_ unsexy story, if that will help.”

If he really does intend to rub his hands all over him, Trahearne does not think it will in the slightest. “Tell me,” he says anyways.

“Wonderful. It is about a nasty human man with an unfortunate beard, an equally nasty sylvari named… Cannoying, and another terribly debonair and clever sylvari named, ah… Rose. So it all started with a barn wall and a few explosives…”

He begins to weave the somewhat factual tale of the late Legate Minister and his Bloodstone-fuelled downfall. He recounts the story in the same way Trahearne remembers he writes his reports, which is somewhat amusing (flowery language and an overly detailed, academic description of violence and bodily remains). Nevertheless, it is an entertaining thing to listen to, and so he does so with a smile.

~*~

Trahearne does not need to eat, sleep, or even breathe, considering he is dead. But he is able to, and he finds he enjoys the simulacrum of being alive. As far as ingesting matter goes, it unfortunately turns out that it has to travel through the whole route, but that is a small price to pay to be able to taste something again.

He managed to get Roza to test out the tea, and, upon his eyeroll-filled prompting, tried it himself. It was not what he expected at all—he thought it would be herbal, most likely, or at least, logic willing, taste like some sort of biomatter.

It does not. It tastes like books.

(But then, wouldn’t all tea taste like books, technically speaking, since it is made from leaves, and wouldn’t that mean, in theory, that it also tastes like sylvari? Or do sylvari taste like tea? Trahearne shakes his head at himself. This was a philosophical quandary he had given up on years ago as a sprout, and now look where his mind dwells. Death really has changed him).

It is not a _bad_ taste per se, just odd. Trahearne can find no other tea in the house—if that is what it is even supposed to be used for—so he settles for it, convincing himself that he will learn to like it.

His new old visitor’s expression, when he sees him preparing it for the both of them, suggests that _he_ does not want to learn to like it.

“Trahearne, you have always had the worst ideas in the name of science,” he says.

“Hush, Riannoc.” Trahearne opens a cupboard over his face. His first visit since Trahearne had seen him again, and he spends the time complaining. “You should be game for this. This is technically an act of bravery, is it not? You are trying new things.”

“Is that all you think I am about?” Riannoc leans against the counters. He is much taller than Roza, enough to sit on them without practically climbing to get there. “‘Oh yes, Riannoc, that one sylvari who is known for dying—his entire character is based around being a brave fool with a sword.’”

“It’s a scepter now,” Trahearne points out pedantically.

“So I have heard.” Riannoc sticks his head out and wiggles his eyebrows. “The Pact commander has it now, did you hear? He is a famous hero from Tyria. I wonder if I can meet him one day. From what people say, he sounds quite dreamy.”

Trahearne closes the cupboard door on his hand. He hisses through his teeth, withdrawing it and flexing his fingers.

Well. That at least allays the worry that Riannoc has any lingering feelings towards _him_ still. “How have you even been able to keep updated from here?”

“The Mist Wardens!” Riannoc proclaims. “Surely you must have at least heard of them. I wanted to join them, but I missed the initial call. Still, it is not as if I am _completely_ out of touch with the land of the living. They did nothing but talk when they came back.”

Of course even the dead gossip about Roza. “I’m surprised you paid attention. You never did like to focus on more than the task immediately at hand.” Trahearne chuckles to himself.

“I have been roaming the Mists for thirty years, Trahearne.” Riannoc’s eyes go dark. “I am not the young sprout I once was.”

That is fair. Neither is Trahearne. He sets the tea to boil.

“I wanted to speak to you about something,” he says once they are sitting in chairs he has dragged out to the front of the house, holding two oddly-shaped cups. “I mean, I think I should bring it up. You are the one who somehow managed to visit me here, so I do not see why I should not.”

“You always did take your time getting to the point,” Riannoc replies.

Trahearne sputters, but it fades into a small, self-conscious laugh. “I suppose I did,” he acknowledges. “Very well. You were my first… well. Everything, really. That does not mean nothing.”

Riannoc smiles, memory in the curve of his eyes. “We had a lot of firsts together. Not only for ourselves, but for our entire race.”

Trahearne wonders if he knows just how vast that race is now. “Yes,” he agrees. “And… I do remember those times fondly, Riannoc. Even though I am certain you and I are both very different now than we were back then.”

Riannoc’s eyebrow lifts in amusement. “Is this a roundabout way of asking if I’m still in love with you? Because I think you know the answer to that question already.”

“It was not, actually. But no, we should disperse with any dolyaks in the room. I’m assuming that answer is no.”

“We were young.” Riannoc looks off into the Mists, his gaze going distant. “And it was strong, and I am certain it was a type of love. But even here, I have learned things of the worlds—even though I do not know what a dolyak is. I do not think we would have been terribly long-lasting.”

Trahearne’s smile is tinged with relief, he finds in some surprise. “Nor do I. We had passion, but passion dies. Still, you will always be dear to me. Just as a brother, as odd as the other races might find that. And as that brother and past lover both, I wanted to tell you that I am currently… seeing someone, in a sense. It is complicated, considering he’s still alive.”

Riannoc’s eyebrows arch. “Oh?” he says with interest. “That certainly does sound complicated. Well, what’s his name? What is he like? Do tell—I miss gossiping.”

“Ah…” Trahearne scratches the back of his neck. “You have already heard of him, actually. His name is Roza. Currently, he’s known as—”

“The Pact commander?!” Riannoc exclaims. He leans forwards, disbelief writ across his expression. “ _You_ managed to land the _Pact_ commander?”

Trahearne’s brow knits in offense. “Is that honestly so hard to believe?” he asks. He sips at his magical book-tasting tea, which has not gone cold. “Perhaps you died before you could learn manners,” he adds in a low mutter.

Riannoc’s booming laugh suggests he heard that. “And you are old and cynical now! Ah…” He lifts his own cup and burbles into it, chuckling.

They sit in semi-contented—on Riannoc’s end—silence.

Just when Trahearne is finishing his tea, out comes, “Is he attractive?”

Trahearne stares. “What?”

“The commander.” Riannoc puts his cup on the ground—it isn’t finished, a glance tells Trahearne—and rests his elbows on his knees, eagerness in the bend of his spine. “What does he look like? Is he terribly ugly, or will I be able to tell why you like him the moment I see him?”

He winks. Trahearne scoffs, half out of disbelief and half from embarrassment.

“I like him because of who he is,” he defends first, and when that earns him a grin, “Pale Mother. Fine. Yes, he is… attractive. Happy?”

Riannoc’s grin turns sly. “How attractive?”

Trahearne’s mind—treacherous thing—automatically conjures images of Roza’s facetious wink, the curve of his smile, the delicate arch of his spine when he walks, the warmth of his calves and coolness of his hands against—

“Very,” he mutters begrudgingly.

Riannoc’s face splits into two. Trahearne rolls his eyes—Roza is rubbing off on him—and says, “Alright, calm down. Perhaps one day you’ll be around when he visits, and you can judge for yourself instead of pestering me about him.”

“Oh, he visits? I will try to be around more often, then. I do want to meet him.”

That is bound to be a disaster. “Great,” Trahearne says. “I am certain that will go very well, and I am flattered he is a greater incentive to come over than I am. Either way, I think I am going to tell him about us. Or what we used to be, rather. I owe him honesty.”

Riannoc nods. “Do what you think is best. I think that is a good idea.”

Trahearne opens his mouth to reply, but then, as if on cue, his communicator crackles awake.

 _“Trahearne?”_ comes through. _“Please tell my dear fool of a brother that going through someone’s private belongings is a crime that ought to be punished with appropriate severity.”_

 _“This is absolutely_ not _‘appropriate severity!’ Are you mad?”_ A more distant second voice, which Trahearne thinks he can identify as Canach.

Trahearne shakes his head faintly. “Roza,” he greets with a smile that he cannot help. Across from him, Riannoc perks up. Trahearne holds a finger to his lips. Hopefully, he is more likely to obey than Gretchen is.

“Alright, what did you do?” he asks. He should not sound this fond. It is probably something completely uncalled for and needlessly violent.

Riannoc mouths something that looks like _He sounds attractive_ , which Trahearne pretends is something else, because what does that even mean? He shoos at him with his hand, turning his head away.

_“What did he do, I think you mean. You see, I put an arcane lock on my poetry journal. Standard practice, of course.”_

_“You put a_ trap _, more like.”_

_“It didn’t even hurt you that much! You’re overreacting. Trahearne, tell him he’s overreacting.”_

_“Firstborn, if you’re willing to take my side on this,”_ Canach drawls _, “I cannot feel my legs. I also cannot feel my arms, or my torso, or the rest of my body. Tell your despicable boyfriend that draining ninety percent of someone’s life force is not a suitable punishment for a little snooping.”_

_“You deserve it regardless, you mud-trodden—”_

“I think,” Trahearne interrupts, because he gets the feeling they will go on if he does not, “That perhaps a certain party is being a tad overdramatic with his consequences—”

_“Ha!”_

“And perhaps a certain _other_ party should not be going through his very personal belongings,” he continues. Canach makes a wounded noise. “There, does that settle your dispute?”

A pause. Then, extremely begrudgingly, _“Should I… let him down from the ceiling?”_

Pale Mother have mercy. “Perhaps,” Trahearne suggests.

He hears a loud thump, followed by a rather colourful string of expletives. _“That is not what he meant, you vile little—”_

_“Call me ‘little’ one more time, and I will string you up by your tongue.”_

“It was nice speaking to you, Roza,” Trahearne says hurriedly. He risks a glance at Riannoc, and sees that his eyebrows seem to have disappeared into his foliage. “Come visit me soon. It sounds as if you could do with… a break.”

 _“Wait, I—”_ A shuffling noise, and then Roza’s voice comes through more clearly, and it is much less abrasive. _“I will. I… I love you, Trahearne. I will speak to you later.”_

“I love you too, dearheart.” Trahearne’s own voice bends and folds into tenderness, not through any direct will of his own. “Later, then.”

He clicks the communicator off. Riannoc puts his head on his hands and shimmies into them, pasting on a sappy smile.

“That is utterly adorable,” he says. “He sounds like an absolute terror.”

Trahearne gives him a sharp look. “It ill behooves you to judge him from a singular sibling quarrel, Riannoc,” he warns. “Roza is…” He glances off to the side. “Going through a lot. But he is not malevolent—he would not truly harm someone he cares about.”

“No, I really did mean that.” Riannoc’s expression softens. “It is adorable. Did you hear his voice change when he thought he was speaking for your ears only? He is enamoured with you.”

Trahearne smiles to himself. “And you with him,” Riannoc continues in a knowing tone. “Ah, I see.”

Trahearne raises a droll eyebrow. “Is there an observation you would like to share with the nursery, Riannoc?”

“You and your strange metaphors.” Riannoc shakes his head. His mouth quirks to the side. “No, I am truly glad for you, Trahearne, although I admit you are making _me_ feel lonely by comparison. He is attractive, powerful, _and_ sounds like a lot of fun to speak to? I’m a bit jealous.”

Trahearne snorts. “Of me.”

“He’s a catch!” Riannoc pouts. “I want a catch. Do you know anyone like him, who just so happens to be dead?”

“Ah…” Trahearne thinks. Other than Riannoc himself (they _are_ similar, damn it)... “Oh. Faolain died.”

Riannoc’s head lifts from his hands. “Is that a joke?”

“Not a very good one,” Trahearne admits with a wince. “In any case, she probably did not end up in the… friendlier parts of the Mists. And… Caithe…”

“I have an idea. Let us not speak about Faolain, and instead I can finish this awful drink and attempt to scrub my mind clean of the thought. What say you?”

“I will… pour myself another cup.” Trahearne gets up and makes to go back inside. “Don’t run off,” he throws over his shoulder.

He returns with a full cup of beige tea. Riannoc is sipping at his own, some valiant struggle of wills wriggling across his face. It clears when Trahearne approaches.

“Dearheart,” he says out loud, and for a jarring moment shock strikes Trahearne’s chest, but then Riannoc’s mouth lifts in a rueful smile, and it fades. “You called him that.”

Trahearne sits. “Yes.”

“Hah.” Riannoc ducks his head. “Do you remember who first came up with that term?”

Trahearne does. “We did.”

“We did,” Riannoc repeats softly. He shakes his head, a miniscule movement. “Perhaps… don’t tell him that part.”

~*~

Trahearne finds himself thinking, on Roza’s next visit, that he is far more difficult to affect in certain ways than he used to be.

He is not yet accustomed to it. Yes, Roza was composed even as a sapling, but he was also years younger, and far more reactive. Now, Trahearne is finding out, his default state seems to be that unflappable coolness he used to only put on around other people. Trahearne knows how to remove it, and it makes it all the more victorious when he manages to earn a blush, but… sometimes he wishes he didn’t have to lift the leaf to see its underside.

He thinks about that now, as Roza twists and turns to show off what is apparently the latest fashion that Lady Kasmeer has dressed him in. Trahearne isn’t surprised that that is apparently _still_ going on.

“And she knows that I do not like short sleeves, so she found me this _exquisite_ blouse. I thought I might leave the front undone, just for you.” A wink. Trahearne, who has been staring at just that, barely catches it.

A small chuckle gets his attention. “Your eyes are straying, my dear Marshal. Look.” Roza does a slow spin. “The trousers suit me, don’t you think? I don’t usually wear them, but I might consider them an option from now on.”

The high-waisted trousers suit parts of him _very_ well. Trahearne once more resigns himself to his fate—something he has been doing a lot of recently. “They do,” he agrees, stifling a sigh. “I will not be able to get them out of my mind for quite a while, I think. Good job.”

Roza gives a confused little laugh. “I will take your word for it,” he says, bemused.

Trahearne’s mouth twists upwards. “I wish you would,” he murmurs.

Roza’s expression shifts as he notices his tone. “Trahearne? Is something the matter?”

He lets the sigh out. “No. Well, yes, perhaps. I do not know.”

Roza’s brow creases in concern. “Alright,” he says softly. He takes his hand. “You can tell me anything, I hope you are aware.”

A stab of guilt makes Trahearne wince. It isn’t Roza’s fault he gets lonely. “I am. Thank you, Roza. The thing is, I… well.”

He ducks his head. “Sometimes you just feel like the distant, untouchable Pact commander,” he confesses, trying to put his thoughts in order. “Out of my reach. Out of my realm of…”

Roza’s face loosens. “Oh. My dear Trahearne, am I being too cold for you?”

“At times, I think, yes.” Perhaps Riannoc’s comment got to him more than he would like, but it is the simple truth, without all its complications.

Roza’s expression turns melancholy. “I am sorry,” he says honestly. He glances away. “I suppose… in truth, I do not want to put too much of myself onto you. I do not want to be a burden to you. I am… used to distancing myself. Distancing my emotions.”

Trahearne is surprised he is freely revealing that much. He touches his cheek. “Roza,” he says gently, “You are not a burden. I care about you, and I want to help you.”

“I know.” Roza’s eyes fall. “In theory. But it is a lot, at times, to feel. It makes me so…” He makes a face, as if the admittance lies ill with him. “So vulnerable. I cannot help but try and protect that.”

“You can be vulnerable with me.” Trahearne says. “There are no dragons here. No feuds, no lich kings, and certainly no politics that make you want to pull grass out from the earth in frustration.”

Roza huffs out a dry laugh. “There aren’t, are there? Just… you.”

“Just me,” Trahearne confirms. He considers for a moment. “And Gretchen.” And Riannoc, but he will get to that later.

Roza’s teeth flash. “I hope you understand that I am not going to dump my problems onto a child. But… I do hear what you are saying.” His eyelids droop. “It hurts you when I am quiet?”

Thorns, he sounds as if he hates himself for it, and Trahearne does not want to make that particular issue worse. But… “Yes.”

A pained smile. “Then I will be less quiet. I am sorry. I do not want you to feel as if I do not love you.”

“Roza.” Trahearne gently embraces him, stroking his back through the thin fabric of the blouse. “I do not feel unloved. I simply wish to talk to you more often. About how you are feeling, about how I am feeling. Do you hear what we are doing right now? Simply this.”

Roza nods against him, and Trahearne pauses, choosing his next words carefully. After a moment he picks, “Does it make you feel unloved, when people are quiet?”

He can practically feel the atmosphere in the room instantly drop. Roza’s breathing speeds up, and Trahearne feels hands clench into the leaves at his back.

“It’s alright,” he says automatically, because he may not be able to sense the Dream anymore, but he is not unable to make simple deductions. “Deep breaths. Hold onto me if you must.”

“No, I… I will speak.”

Trahearne shakes his head. “If it is an upsetting—”

“I want to,” Roza interrupts. He takes several slow breaths, calming himself, then begins to speak in a low voice.

“I do. Feel unloved,” he mumbles. “You don’t understand. Braham ignored me for years. Blamed me for things that were never my fault, and I… you had just died.” He takes another, shakier breath. “And then, people finally decided to talk to me, and I thought… I thought they would try to help me. I needed them. But they only spoke about him. My feelings were not a concern.”

Trahearne notices how his words are beginning to shear, and squeezes him. Roza continues, “And so I distanced myself. And… they did the same. Until I stopped.” He makes a noise that gets caught in his throat. “I only forgave them because I could not bear to keep them away any longer. Their silence hurt. It was an act of weakness, don’t you see? Not strength.”

Trahearne hugs him tightly. “That’s alright,” he says quietly.

Roza lets out a twisted sound. “You are right. I do hold grudges. I think I will hold them forever. But I do not have the strength to give them any anger.”

When had he said…? Caithe, Trahearne remembers, and closes his eyes. Right. Thorns, he had not expected…

“Roza,” he asks, “Did you speak to anyone about my death? Did you get any help?”

Roza is silent.

Trahearne curses internally. Of course he had not. Of course he is still now dealing with wounds of years ago, if they had never gotten a chance to heal. Of course he is still so raw about the subject.

Roza says in a small voice, “I was going to go to Braham, back then. I thought that he of all people would understand. I didn’t expect him to…”

Trahearne presses a kiss to his head. “I am sorry that happened to you.”

That is apparently the leaf that broke the Tree’s bough. “But he apologized. He is kind to me now,” Roza chokes out in a wretched, wet sob that is nearly unrecognizable.

“That does not change the past,” Trahearne says.

Roza starts to weep, silent and trembling. It hurts—by the Mother Tree does it hurt—but Trahearne holds him, and murmurs to him, and comforts him, and in the end, he is glad for it. He does not want to hurt him, but he does want to help him heal, and the first step is always the most painful.

He takes his commander to the bed, and garners no protests. Roza only slumps against him, tired and quiet. He likewise does not protest when Trahearne unlaces his boots and takes them off—they are heeled, he notes in amusement—or tugs at his blouse until it comes untucked.

“You are ruining the way my figure looks in these clothes,” is all he mumbles. He nevertheless arches his back so Trahearne can reach it easier.

“I do not think anything could ruin that.” Trahearne tries to slip two fingers into his waistband, and frowns. “This is tight.”

“Fashion,” Roza mutters as he undoes the front buttons. It earns a faint sigh of relief. “What, are we napping now? Like baby griffons?”

Trahearne wonders why he references griffons so often. “Just lying down for a bit,” he replies. “If you would like to sleep, you may. Mother only knows how long ago you last did.”

“Someone told Laranthir my communicator channel.” Roza waves his hand in a movement he most likely intends to be languid but comes out sluggish. “The other one, I mean. He bothers me when you do not. So I suppose yes, he does know.”

“Good.” Satisfied that he is undressed to comfort, Trahearne lies down next to him. Roza shuffles into him unprompted, and he smiles to himself.

“By the bough, I am so tired,” Roza whispers. He rests his head against Trahearne’s side, and his eyes slip shut. “Tired of keeping it all inside. Tired of fighting.”

“Then do not do both of those things.” Trahearne presses a kiss to his forehead. “You do not have to protect me from yourself, Roza. I have seen worse horrors than those that lie at the depths of a living being’s soul. You will not frighten me off, and I will not cower.”

Roza’s arm snakes across his chest. “I’m beginning to believe that. I think…” He yawns. “You are stronger than I.”

Trahearne rocks his head from side to side in the negative. “Strength is relative. Never have I even once stood eye to eye with an Elder Dragon.”

“Strength is relative,” Roza echoes back at him. He burrows into his ferns—his hips wriggle in a manner that is frankly quite endearing as he does so—and Trahearne watches as his shoulders go limp and his spine slackens.

Roza hasn’t fallen asleep with him in years. Roza has probably barely trusted _anyone_ enough to fall asleep with them in—

Trahearne closes his eyes as well, but it is in an attempt to stay the swell of emotion rising in his chest. This is why he does this. _This_ is why the shared struggles, the crying, the pain, is all worth it.

He encircles a protective arm around Roza’s sleeping shoulders. “No harm will get to you while you are with me, dearheart,” he swears, and he means it. “Not even if I have to fight all the Elder Dragons in the worlds to keep you safe.”

~*~

Roza awakens a few hours later. He stirs, makes a quiet noise, and sits up to knuckle the sleep out of his eyes. How one person can both look so sweet and yet manage to maintain poise and dignity, Trahearne does not think he will ever be able to figure out. Perhaps it is because he is so tiny.

“Mm.” Roza stretches, rolling his head. His blouse, still open at the front, has fallen off one shoulder. Trahearne arches up and presses a chaste kiss to it. “ _Mm._ Hello.”

Trahearne kisses his cheek next. “Hello. Did you sleep well?”

“Very. I dreamed about wearing boots that were so big they swallowed me whole and eventually drowned me.” Roza yawns. “I think it’s a message.”

“Telling you that you’re short?” Trahearne cracks a grin. Roza rolls his eyes playfully, but smiles, and turns his head to catch his lips.

“Trahearne,” he says when they part. His dark eyes are open and honest. “I want to say thank you. Sincerely. You are doing so much for me, and I do so appreciate it.”

Trahearne begins to shake his head in an automatic dismissal, but a narrow finger presses against his lips. “Hush. Truly, you do. Let me thank you.”

“I would do everything for you and more, my dear Roza.” Trahearne takes the hand at his mouth with his, and its fingers curl over. “I have nothing to lose anymore.”

Roza clicks his tongue. “Such nihilism. You are beginning to sound like me.” He lets out a little laugh. “Ah! Right—do you want me to perform a sexual favour for you?”

Trahearne blinks at him. Had he heard that correctly? “What?”

Roza gives him a pointed look. “Sex,” he enunciates. He makes a gesture with his hand that, were Trahearne still alive, would have surely set his face on fire.

“That, um.” Trahearne is torn between laughter and disbelief. Roza’s expression is so innocently expectant. “That won’t be necessary, no.”

Roza tilts his head. “Are you sure? I am fairly certain that this is the part of the novel where the lover will usually offer their body. I would not mind.”

“Thorns, you really do take those too seriously, don’t you?” Trahearne breathes a laugh into their joined hands. Roza makes an offended noise, and it rounds out. “Yes, Roza, I am sure. Thank you for offering, however. It is very… chivalrous of you.”

“Yes.” Roza sounds satisfied at the turn the conversation has taken. “I really am trying my best to be a good lover, you know. I’m doing my research. I am glad it is showing.”

“Mmhm.” Trahearne tries to stifle his smile (he suspects Roza would not even think of propositioning him when he is busy climbing all over him and getting overly handsy. Ah, the fallacy of reason).

“Well then, I have something for you.” Roza releases his hands and climbs off the bed on his hands and knees. Trahearne shamelessly watches him—he does not have to pretend to avert his gaze anymore. “I hope it is… That is to say, I hope you like it. I, ah, put a lot into it.”

“And I have something to tell you,” Trahearne returns. He cranes his neck curiously, watching as Roza goes to kneel down in front of his pack.

“In that case, you go first.” Roza digs through it, searching for something. “I am going to be a coward and take the opportunity to stall.”

Trahearne chuckles. “Very well. Do you remember Riannoc?”

“The first sylvari to die? Yes.” Roza shoots him a quick glance. “Somewhat foolish, liked swinging his sword around.”

Trahearne is not going to tell Riannoc that that is Roza’s impression of him. “Well, him and I used to be… together. Before he died, that is.”

“Oh.” Roza sounds surprised. He pulls something out of his pack—his poetry journal—and trots back to Trahearne. “Well, I suppose you had few options back then. It makes sense. You know, I think I would have picked Malomedies.”

“Don’t you—I—What?”

“Malomedies,” Roza repeats. He gestures to his head. “Same hairstyle. Tall, dark, handsome? I like him.”

Trahearne stares at him. The subject of Riannoc, for the moment, lies forgotten. “What about me?”

“You are very visually appealing,” Roza soothes. Trahearne assumes that is supposed to be a compliment. “I just like his… aura. He is very dignified.”

“You are _with_ me,” Trahearne says, petulant.

“Exactly, so if I had to pick _another_ one, I would pick him.” Roza smiles at him. “Is that what you wanted to tell me? Fear not, dear lover—I am not going to throw a fit over someone who has been dead and gone for thirty years.”

“He is not truly gone,” Trahearne tells him. “He came to visit me not too long ago. He said he wanted to meet you, actually.”

Roza’s eyebrows arch. “That is interesting. Well, tell him I said hello, and perhaps next time he comes over, I will drop by. We can spar again—that was fun.”

“You fought? How?”

“In a sense.” Roza flutters his hand. “I fought a memory of him in Caladbolg, like I did with you. But I did like his energy. We are very similar, I think, beyond the obvious differences. We even have the same taste in sylvari.”

He winks. Trahearne _pbbt_ s in disbelief, and Roza laughs.

“It will be good for you to have another friend,” he says. “Now, ah…” He opens his journal and flips through it, smiling shyly. “I wrote you something.”

“It is not very good,” he hurries to add as Trahearne takes it, his voice pitching to a self-conscious height. “Ah… don’t read it out loud, please.”

“I am sure it is lovely,” Trahearne murmurs. He gives Roza’s ducked head a kiss, and gets a small cough. He looks down at the lines of small, looping handwriting.

_I never believed in love at first sight_

_I still don’t._

_But when I fell for you I thought I might_

_Just believe that love is a much more beautiful thing_

_Than this sudden rush of crude infatuation people say they experience_

_You are not crude_

_Your soul is dark and beautiful and vast_

_It glitters like so many distant stars in the night sky_

_Hovering ever out of my reach, obscure, unending, omnipresent_

_What am I but a petty living thing, feeble and fragile_

_Reaching up to you_

_To something I never thought I could obtain_

_I’m sorry, I forgot to rhyme_

_I just kept thinking about you_

_And how much I love you_

_And how much you love me_

_I lost my words_

_I did not ever think I could have this_

_Thank you._

_\- Roza_

“I… know I lost my poetic v—” Roza begins hoarsely, but Trahearne cuts him off with a tight embrace.

“It is perfect,” he breathes. “No, I liked the shift. It is perfect, Roza.”

“The star analogy is tired,” Roza says shakily, as Trahearne presses lips to his cheek, his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

“It is perfect,” he repeats for the third time. “Can I keep it? If you don’t mind tearing a page out.”

Roza lets out an incredulous little laugh, but does just that. “You… really like it?”

“I love it. I love you.”

“Thank you.” Roza blushes, then realizes what he has just said. “I mean—”

Trahearne laughs. “You are welcome. Once I find the materials, I shall write you something as well, I think. Now come and have tea with me. I believe I’ve found something that might be a sweetening agent, and I need you to test it out.”

Roza rolls his eyes, but swipes at them with the back of his thumb when he thinks Trahearne is not looking. He hides a smile.

Yes, he will get to thinking on his own poem. Star analogies _are_ a bit tired, but he perhaps he can throw in something about corpses and decay. Roza would like that.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> [roza's outfit in the last scene](https://draw-you-coward.tumblr.com/post/621847333377851393/this-mf-comes-up-and-slaps-ur-mcm-on-the-ass-wyd)
> 
> anyways please tell me what you think! <33
> 
> [this one's song! ;3;](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pU2CGfIuxUU)


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